


Bruises

by DwarvenBeardSpores



Category: Endeavour (TV), Inspector Morse (TV)
Genre: Apologies, Body Image, Bruises, Canon-Typical Violence, Complicated Relationships, Cuddling & Snuggling, Depression, Episode Tag, Episode: s01e03 Service of All the Dead, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Intimacy, Loneliness, Long-Term Relationship(s), M/M, Pain, Period-Typical Homophobia, Snark, Touch-Starved, brief mentions of: - Freeform, secrecy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 15:00:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17603519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DwarvenBeardSpores/pseuds/DwarvenBeardSpores
Summary: After wrapping up the case at St. Oswald’s and being kicked around on the church roof, Morse goes to Max DeBryn for comfort.





	Bruises

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iloveyoudie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iloveyoudie/gifts).



> Apparently Morse just makes me want to write angsty post-episode conversations. Spoilers obviously for Service of All the Dead. 
> 
> It… has very little to do with Endeavour, but I’m working from a place of seeing the two series on the same timeline, so you’re welcome to read it that way too.
> 
> This one had a few difficulties but I think I’ve got it how I want it. We hope!
> 
> iloveyoudie this is for you because I get feelings when you write these gays.

“I wouldn’t think you’d need to be here for this one,” Max said. “Considering you were there when he died.”

“Only partially.” Morse’s stomach turned over as it always did at the scent of the morgue. He shoved his hands in his pockets until his coat pressed tight against his shoulders, and glanced around the room to see if there was anyone else working with Max that evening. It seemed not. Good. He stepped closer to the examining table, carefully averting his eyes from the body and anything around the room that might be human remains.

“Ah yes, the roof. You’ve never done well with roofs.”

Morse’s stomach rolled again at the thought. “No,” he agreed. Then, after a moment, “nor with getting the wind kicked out of me.” His whole body was aching now, adrenaline from wrapping up the case long since gone. A beer would have helped numb it, but the noise and cheer of the pub, on top of his own guilt, had put him off.

“Ah. You’re moping then.” Max sniffed, and there was the shuffling of a lab coat and the clinking of tools that suggested he’d returned prodding at Henry Josephs’ body.

Morse stared very hard at the upper corner of a cabinet where the white paint was beginning to peel. “I am not.” The pressure of his coat sent a dull, continuous pain down his body that was easier to deal with than the irregular stabs every time he moved.

He could _hear_ Max rolling his eyes. Thankfully, instead of pushing at that particular point, which he’d almost certainly win because Morse _was_ moping, Max moved on. “And what were you doing getting the wind kicked out of you on the roof?”

The peeling seemed worse than the last time Morse had been here. Maybe it was water damage from a leak or something. “I don’t know.” Insuring he had all the information before Josephs took his life the same way as the Reverend. Doing whatever necessary to make sure he didn’t kill again. Getting revenge for Miss Rawlinson. He sighed and his ribs throbbed. “Playing the hero, I suppose.”

“Playing the fool, more like.” Morse risked a glare his way, and Max smirked. He’d come here wanting a needling and Max knew it.

But today Morse couldn’t keep up. No quick wit, nothing but pain and the dull cotton of exhaustion. He closed his eyes and turned back to the cabinet, but kept them closed. It was too bright in here, anyway. White lights on white surfaces that glistened with disinfectant. “I thought I’d keep you company,” he answered finally. “Five bodies on this case must have been keeping you busy.” And one of them was a child. They all hated when it was a child, but Max especially.

“Well it’s a bit late for you to do anything about that, isn’t it?” Max’s voice was sharp, and some tool or another clattered more loudly than was necessary.

“Yes,” Morse said. There was no denying it. “But I couldn’t come earlier, I was trying to catch the killer.”

“And it’s a good job you did. Eventually.”

Morse tucked his chin into his chest. There was nothing to say to that, nothing to be done except wait for trial. That was the killer stinking on Max’s table. The thought of it made Morse’s head spin.

“Anyway, if you really wanted to be present for the autopsy, you’re out of luck.” There was a shuffling, and then the snap of latex as Max pulled off his gloves. “I’ve just about finished with this one. Straightforward.” Pages turning, a pen scratching, he was finishing the forms now. Final observations.

This was maybe the only time Morse had been disappointed to find the post mortem nearly wrapped up. He’d been hoping to trade barbs a little longer, let the good doctor’s familiar voice poke where he needed to be poked, and smooth down some of the raw nerves that seemed to make up his entire body.

“And after this?” he asked, perhaps a little desperately. “Home for the night or…?”

“Back to my office, first, so you can let me have a look at those bruises.” Max sniffed again. “No, don’t act surprised, I knew what you were after the moment you stepped in.”

Morse opened his mouth, for what he did not know. Denial? Gratitude? He closed it again.

“And don’t look this way, yet. I’ve got to put away the body.”

Morse obediently kept his eyes closed as the squeak of gurney wheels and the banging of metal doors informed him of the body’s progress. He thought for a moment he might drift off right there, fall asleep on his feet and tumble to the ground like yet another corpse. Then Max’s footsteps and harsh breathing returned, and he announced, “it’s all right now. Nothing to see, unless you want to go nosing in my trays.”

“Max,” Morse said, exasperated, but left it at that as Max put a hand on his shoulder and steered him towards the office. His stomach pressed against Morse’s back, solid and comfortable. He was too good to Morse by half.

The office was blissfully dim and looked the same as it had for years; good because Morse didn’t like when it changed. He knew the softness of the brown sofa against one wall, and the exact hight of the lip of the desk, which he perched on as he looked the rest over. The bookshelf held an assortment of medical texts and poetry anthologies, all thoroughly perused. He could have pawed through the miscellanea on the desk, there was always something interesting to be found, but instead he pulled off his tie and watched as Max carefully locked the door behind them and pulled the blinds. Even on days when the morgue was empty, it was a relief to be behind closed doors.

“Go on, then,” Max said, turning to him, all business. “Take off that shirt so I can have a look at you.”

Usually Morse had to ask outright for a patch job, or at least be bleeding noticeably, but every so often Max would have mercy on him. Morse folded his coat and left it on the desk, exposing himself to the world. Then he shrugged off his jacket and began unbuttoning his shirt.

“I’ll warn you,” he said. “I’ve never felt less fit than I have the past few days.”

“Come now, Morse. You’ve never been fit.” Max waved his hands to hurry Morse along, and Morse gave him another dirty look and continued at the same pace. “Skinny enough to blow over in the slightest breeze, maybe, but not fit.”

Morse chuckled. “I suppose not.” He undid the last button and slipped the shirt off his shoulders.

“Oh dear. You did take a beating, didn’t you?” Max clicked his tongue, and Morse dared a glance down at himself. Same belly, same chest hair, but he could see why Max was concerned. About the whole thing was covered in bruises, dark purples and greys, strongest in the places he’d been kicked and punched, but spreading out to cover, well, pretty much all of him. He winced and looked away.

“At least there don’t appear to be any open wounds.” Max began an examination of the damage, warm hands feeling over the bruises on Morse’s shoulders. He prodded a spot just above Morse’s sternum that had taken the brunt of an unfriendly fist.

“Ow!” Morse snapped. “Be gentle, would you?”

“Forgive me,” Max said dryly, barely sorry at all. “My patients don’t tend to be quite so sensitive. You should consider yourself lucky.”

Morse grunted something that was not agreement and let Max carry on. Poking and disapproving tutting notwithstanding, he was glad for the grounding pressure of familiar hands, for the smell of Max that, after so many years, he didn’t bother trying to separate into composite parts. He closed his eyes and let Max turn him around.

“It’s been too long since you’ve come to see me, you know,” Max said conversationally, as though it didn’t matter. They both knew it did. His hands ran down the flat of Morse’s back.

“I know,” Morse said, then offered, “it’s my new sergeant. He’s very keen.”

“What do you mean, keen?”

“I mean he’s liable to show up on my front door at three in the morning if he thinks he’s found something to crack the case.”

Max chuckled. “Must be a right terror, then. I can’t imagine where he got it from.”

Morse rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean. What would he think if he knew where I was?” In reality, he wondered. Lewis didn’t seem the sort to turn on Morse for his personal affairs. Still, there was no harm in treading carefully.

“You’re depressed, Morse.”

“I have a point!”

“Maybe so, but you’re making excuses again, and you know I don’t listen to your excuses.” Morse found himself turned again until he was facing Max, and the pathologist’s hands ran over the tender skin of his chest. Morse shivered.

“Alright, you _might_ be onto something.” He was. It must have been weeks since he’d spent the night at Max’s place, since he’d had a good night’s sleep with Max’s arms around him, since he’d sat and just _talked_ with someone about something that wasn’t a damned murder. And Max was right. He was depressed. He could barely drag himself into bed at night, let take a risky journey to another house, and it had never occurred to him to invite Max over.

“That’s more like it.” Max’s thumb pressed a particularly painful spot on Morse’s left side, perhaps as revenge. “Sometime next week, then?”

Morse offered a smile through the pain. “I’ll try and manage.”

“See that you do. You’re not the only one who’s lonely, you know.” Before Morse could answer that, Max moved down to Morse’s stomach and grabbed the lower roll of flab there, jiggling it a bit. “The only trouble with this, Morse, is that it’s all from beer rather than a few solid meals.”

Morse hissed through his teeth at the pain. “Max, please! I’m injured!”

“ _You_ got off lucky.” Max sniffed. “Oh, the bruises are a nasty piece of work, all right, but you don’t seem to have anything broken or terribly out of place. If you _take it easy,_ ” he gave Morse a pointed glare, “you should heal up fine. Oh, and you’ll want to ice them.”

Morse scoffed. “I don’t want _ice._ ”

“You do if you want the swelling to go down.”

“It’s cold!”

“You’re always cold.” Max stepped back, and Morse nearly fell over forward chasing his touch. He righted himself with a cough. Max raised an eyebrow.“And Morse. I don’t want to see you with any more like these unless I’ve had a hand in them myself.”

It was a two-pronged barb, and Morse didn’t miss either caution. He picked up his shirt and twisted it in his hands but, despite the very real cold, made no move to put it on. He was being watched, even as Max cleaned his glasses on the corner of his vest, and he felt suddenly that however he responded held a very great significance. He’d never been good at that. Saying things that mattered.

“She’s going to prison,” he said, finally.

“Who?”

“Miss Rawlinson. The church cleaner at St. Oswald’s.” His gaze drifted over the carpet, Max’s shoes, scuffed furniture legs. He wasn’t sure how much Max knew. Oh, surely the department gossips had got hold of it, and maybe Max had seen some of his fumbling attempts at courtship with his own eyes. He couldn’t remember in the blur of the past few days, and he wasn’t sure how much Max cared, either. Their relationship, whatever it was, couldn’t follow conventional rules. Too well-established to be in jeopardy, and yet the necessary distance left them both with too many lonely nights.

Max's response revealed nothing. “Is she guilty?”

Morse’s throat was raw. “Yes.” He twisted his shirt in his hands.

“Well then, that would seem to be the place for her.”

Morse wished he had a beer now. He needed to swallow down whatever was in his chest: a protest that she didn’t deserve any of this, that he, Morse, didn’t deserve any of this, and Max, oh, Max deserved _far_ better. A wave of nausea as he thought about how close Miss Rawlinson had come to being killed and, perhaps, how close he’d come. The words that came, quite unbidden, into the silence of the room:

“She held me.”

When Max didn’t answer, Morse risked a glance his way. His eyebrows raised, he seemed to be determining just what to do with that piece of information. “So?” Max said finally. “Is that supposed to absolve her crimes, or is this your version of a kiss-and-tell?”

“On the roof, after— well, after. The first thing she did was take me up and…”

“And hold you.”

Morse nodded. He nodded and he ached and he _wanted,_ and Max was better at all of this than he was, surely he’d get the idea even if Morse couldn’t say it.

It was impossible not to measure time in breaths, each one aggravating his bruised ribs.

“Well, if that’s all then,” Max said, and Morse’s head shot up. “Remember: Ice. Rest. Dinner at my place, if you’re not too busy being _held.”_ He wasn’t wearing gloves, but the way Max brushed his hands together seemed to mimic the way he peeled them off, stripping off one role and going seamlessly into another. Morse was too late. He was too bloody late.

“Max, _please._ ”

Max sighed and graced him with a look back. “Begging now, are we? It must be serious.”

He didn’t deny it. Couldn’t. “Stay with me.”

 _“Oh grant me the ease that is granted so free.”_ Weight on his toes, Max considered the proposition. Morse caught the smirk on his lips before he officially gave in. “Since you asked so politely I suppose I’ve no choice.”

Morse let his head fall back and sighed at the ceiling. Thank God for Max.

The sofa creaked as Max eased himself down, rested his back against one of the sofa arms, and stretched his legs along the length of the couch. He gestured for Morse to lie on top of him. “Well, come on then. And put your shirt, if you’re so worried about the cold."

The cold was no longer his greatest concern, but Morse gingerly pulled the shirt on, leaving it unbuttoned. Max was always warm, warm enough for the both of them. He groaned as he sat, whole body protesting any change in position even as he crawled atop Max and rested his head on Max’s shoulder. It took some shifting to get lined up comfortably, but they’d had a fair amount of practice. ”Do you always have to play with me like that?” Morse mumbled.

"Only as long as you insist on making me guess what it is you're after. Which is to say, yes.”

"You always know what I mean," Morse protested, knowing full well this was an argument he would never win and never wanted to.

"And because of that you expect me to do all the work, is that it?"

"Mmmng." Morse pressed his face against the soft warmth of Max's shoulder, and one hand came to rest on the comforting swell of Max’s belly. Max wrapped an arm around his back, rubbing gently. From this position Morse could hear the low wheeze of his breath, the beat of his heart. Maybe he should give up police work and just do this for the rest of his life. He almost said as much, but Max squeezed him gently and he let out an involuntary gasp and closed his eyes.

Being held by Max was worlds different from being held by Miss Rawlinson. Up there, exposed, his head had been swimming and his breath coming short, and his desperation for any sort of grounding had nearly smothered the bright pricking of infatuation. Nearly, but not quite. She had held him as though he’d been about to fall away into nothing, and he'd held her as though he believed the same. He loathed heights.

But this? This was just the opposite. Ground floor, dark, enclosed, quiet. Safe. Morse felt as though every part of his body was settling back into place: organs where they should be, bones attached correctly, skin shifted back into alignment. Ridiculous, really. And sure, everything hurt, but everything always hurt. It was the heat and the thumb stroking his shoulder and Max’s other hand on his forehead, running through his hair that really mattered.

He closed his eyes, but he couldn’t quite shut off his mind, not even here, not even now. Not after that case, and not with Max’s breaths growing just the faintest bit uneven with emotion that he wouldn’t dare allow to show to the naked eye. “I’ve hurt you,” Morse said, certain.

Max took a moment to compose himself. “Surprisingly enough,” he said, “I’ve gotten used to it.”

Morse winced. “I’m sorry.”

“And that I’m much less used to. Thank you, Morse. I shall treasure it.”

It was a genuine sentiment, even if Max had said it with sarcasm. Morse relaxed just the faintest bit more. He couldn’t do the same thing Max had done for him, feel him up to remind him that, physically at least, he was intact. Instead he leaned up to kiss Max gently, just under the ear. “I mean it,” he said. 

“I know.”

Morse’s eyes had started to close when Max spoke again. “Don’t fall asleep on me, whatever you do.”

He opened his eyes. “Why not?”

“Because if you go down I'll be nodding off next, and unlike _some_ people I prefer to do my sleeping out of the office. Besides, you’ll get a crick in your neck sleeping that way, and neither of us need you moping about that on top of everything else.”

Morse sighed. He’d have to get up, then. Leave the embrace, the room, go out into the world via the hospital, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to go through with that. “Five more minutes.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Max answered, and he did, although it took another seven minutes of grumbling afterwards before he succeeded in pushing Morse mostly upright and back in all his clothes. Amid all the other ways his body was screaming at him, Morse couldn’t be sure if his neck had seized up after all, though he rather suspected it had. He chalked it up as a worthwhile sacrifice.

Eventually they made it out of the room, and Morse lingered while Max locked up.

“So," he said, his hands but his coat hanging loose around his shoulders. Things seemed just a little less harsh than they had going in. "About that dinner.”

Max glanced at him sideways and smiled. “Well,” he said. “I might be able to throw something together.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I’d love to know what you thought. 
> 
> I can also be found on tumblr as dwarven-beard-spores, dreamwidth as DwarvenBeardSpores, and twitter as @BeardSpores.


End file.
